Sunrise Lands

Ritva and Mary nodded vigorously. "We ran into a CUT preacher in Bend, and he started a riot we got sucked into. Not a nice bunch."

Mathilda gave them a quelling glance and continued: "… and so does your mother. I don't know about the Prophet, but I've always taken Lady Juniper's ideas seriously."

He nodded, touched despite his irritation. And nine… that many aren't really more conspicuous than five, but another four good sword arms might make the difference in a tight spot. It's luck and the whim of the Trickster either way. Judgment call.

There wasn't much sense in pitching a fit; he had no way of stopping Mathilda from following him except to turn back himself.

Of course, when and if we get back… Oh, sweet Mother-of-All, what if I come back and she doesn't?

"You realize your mother will kill me?" Rudi wasn't quite sure whether he was serious or not. "If something happens to you, she'll kill me slowly."

I like Sandra, but…

She'd saved his life when he was her husband's pris oner as a child during the War of the Eye-saved it several times, in fact. And she'd always been kind to him when he was visiting afterwards, and he'd learned a good deal from her. The problem was… he wasn't a kid anymore. With Sandra, you never knew. Was she capable of acting nice for twelve years as an act of calculation, just to get on your good side?

Oh, yeah. She's capable of it, no doubt about it. But would she be after doing it the now?

Sandra's daughter looked a little daunted, and then brightened-probably thinking that it would be the bet ter part of a year before she saw her mother again, or more.

"That's the least of your worries," Mathilda pointed out. "For now, at least. Mom's back in Portland or Castle Todenangst." A grin, half-ironic. "And even the Spider's reach has limits."

Of a sudden, Rudi threw back his head and laughed. It would be a year, and he was still young enough for twelve months to seem like a long time.

"Well, when you're right, you're right," he said; her smile warmed him. "And Matti-I'd have done exactly the same thing in your place."

He turned and introduced the others. Odard had seen Ingolf before, and met Edain once or twice, and was smooth as ever, but when he and Vogeler shook, their forearms clenched a little as each took a squeeze. Rudi hid his smile at that-two strong men taking each other's measure, a bit like two strange dogs bristling and stalking around stiff-legged and then sniffing each oth er's behinds. The more so as Ingolf was a tried fighting man, and Odard just enough younger to be extra touchy about the fact that he wasn't.

"Pleased to meet you again, Sheriff Vogeler," Odard said when they'd finished.

He worked his right hand a little. That was a mark of a certain respect, and so was the form of address; Association nobles didn't always admit that the titles of eastern sheriffs were comparable to their own… and Odard was technically a baron now himself, while Ingolf was a younger son and landless wanderer.

"Pleased to meet you again, Baron Gervais," Ingolf said, impeccably polite.

He didn't flex his hand. That might mean he'd won the little unspoken exchange-he was bigger and heavier boned, after all-or it just might mean that he had six years more experience and was better at hiding things. Or both; probably both.

Behind them, Rudi saw the three young women exchange a glance and roll their eyes skyward ever so slightly. He knew exactly what they were thinking: Men. That made him cock an ironic eyebrow at them.

Girls have their own way of playing who's-the-boss; if we do it like dogs, they're more like cats, he thought. It's sneakier, usually, but it's the same game, sure. And they can play our way if they want.

He shivered slightly, inwardly, at a memory. Tiphaine d'Ath had told him once that she even had an advantage at it; she skipped the preliminary strutting and chest beating flourishes men expected and just killed whoever she thought was a threat. Of course, that had its draw backs too; it made her hated almost as much as she was feared. Let the fear weaken, and the hate would become active.

There was a reason for the rituals; they let men settle their positions without fighting to the death every single time.

Rancher Brown had caught the byplay between the two younger men too, and snorted softly; with him it was probably that he had nearly seven decades of perspective, and was an old alpha dog who was sensible enough to let the sixty well armed youngsters who followed his ba

"Come on in."

The breakfast table was still set in the dining room, though it looked as if half a dozen people had already eaten. Mrs. Brown was there, a quiet middle aged blond woman a fair bit younger than the rancher-his first wife had died not long after the Change when some medicine she needed to live ran out. The current Mrs. Brown's children were there, down at the end of the table, two girls of eight and ten and a boy a couple of years younger than Edain.

The rancher's wife smiled as the newcomers loaded their plates with flapjacks and huevos rancheros and bacon and sausage and buttered muffins and toast from the lamp-warmed hot plates on the buffet. There was a-small-jar of maple syrup on the table as well. Rudi used it sparingly; the stuff had to be imported from the Willamette, and he suspected that its presence was in honor of the guests in general and of him specifically.

Everything was still good; he murmured the invocation and pitched in. Mrs. Brown smiled at him.

"You always were a good eater, Rudi. It's a pleasure to see a young man enjoy his food."

He gri

"It's a pleasure for a young man to eat it, too, Aunt Mabel." Then to the rancher: "I notice Bob isn't here."

Brown nodded at the mention of his eldest son, born before the Change.

"The boy's out getting a horse herd ready to drive east. Saddle-broke, young 'uns four to six. 'Bout a hundred and a bit."

Then he shook his head. "The boy?" He made a tsk sound and gave a rueful chuckle. "I'm gettin' old. Bob has a boy of his own who'll start shavin' in a year or three."

Rudi raised a brow. "Taking a herd east? Boise?"

Brown smiled slowly. "Well, maybe. Maybe not, too. General Thurston in Boise is paying pretty good for saddle-broke four-year-olds…"

"But New Deseret is paying even better?"

"Reckon. Leastways that's what their man promised; their war with this Prophet fella isn't going so well. And the Saints generally keep a bargain once they've made it. Can't always say that about Thurston, if he gets a hair up it about how you're in the way of his restorin' the US of A, which to his way of thinking means truckling to him."

A glint of anger showed through Brown's facade. "And this Prophet bastard out Montana way, he sent a man around not too long ago, tellin' us not to help Deseret, tellin' us like we were his hired hands. Talked trash to some of our people in secret, too, preachin' and tryin' to set them against their Ranchers."

And it's sure Rancher Brown is a bit ticked, if he's sell ing that many horses, potential breeding mares as well as geldings… Rudi thought.

"What did you do?" the young Mackenzie asked, using the plural to mean the leaders of the CORA.

"Told him to stop. When he didn't… well, we give him what he asked for."

"Which was?" Rudi said, willingly playing straight man to the grim oldster.

"He asked for earth and water. Said it was symbolic, a way of acknowledging we'd take his Prophet for bossman and that everythin' here would obey him."