Страница 32 из 120
"We don't have any of the CUT's minting," Rudi mused. "Or any from farther East. Boise currency might do at a pinch, but not the Association's or Corvallis."
"The Sioux don't coin, but they do use gold and silver. A bar of gold's a bar of gold. And at the least we could buy up some folks and get them out to their kin, and enough supplies."
Rudi winced a little; he hated the thought of playing slaver even as a deception, but it was a legitimate ruse of war.
"I'll go if they need a woman," Rebecca Nystrup said.
Her cousin opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was good protective coloration. Rudi sympathized with him as he visibly suppressed the desire to say that she'd do no such thing-he could scarcely order one of the other women to do it, when his own kin had asked for the nasty, dangerous job.
"I volunteer!" Fred Thurston said.
"Sorry, Fred," Ingolf said. "You'd stand out too much."
Frederick looked at him blankly for an instant, then struck the palm of his hand against his forehead. "Right. Damn, I hadn't thought of that. We haven't gotten far enough away from Boise for people to just take me for myself."
Black folk were even thi
And since his father had been ruler of Boise ever since he brought order out of plague and chaos in the first Change Year, the association of young black man and Prince of Boise -specifically, fugitive prince with a massive price on his head -would be all too likely, even for Cutter levies from beyond the Rockies. Their leaders at least would have some familiarity with local politics.
Rudi ran the rest of his band through his mind. They couldn't take any of their own women; Cutter females were close-kept, even more so than in the Protectorate back home. Which left…
"Edain… and Odard, I think," Rudi said. "Would Edain's accent pass? Or mine, for that matter?"
"Sure," Ingolf said. "You get all sorts of fu
Odard Liu nodded; his father had been half-Chinese, and it showed in his coarse crow-black hair, high cheekbones and the fold at the corners of his blue eyes. Father Ignatius had similar looks save for black eyes, courtesy of a grandmother from Vietnam, but his tonsure wasn't the only thing that made him too unmistakably a Christian cleric.
"Happy to volunteer," the Association noble said dryly. "Even ex-post-facto."
Mathilda snorted. "You volunteered for everything when you joined up, Odard."
He gave her a charming smile, and a courtly sweeping bow that went oddly with his grimy wool and leather outfit and shapeless floppy-brimmed canvas hat. Somehow it evoked the image of the impeccable court fashion he delighted in at home.
"That is most true, Your Highness. My sword is ever at my lady's service."
Ingolf made a passable imitation of the bow himself as she blushed and cleared her throat. He spoke briskly: "You can be the Injun prince, if you want, Odard. It'd be likely we'd have a chief's son along, if the local tribe where we came from were putting up part of the money."
"No time like the present," Rudi said, looking up; six hours to sunset. "We'll have to have a set of signals-"
"Stop right there, strangers!"
The words were backed up by half-a-dozen stiff horn and sinew horseman's bows drawn to the ear. Ingolf let his balance shift back a bit, and Boy halted between one pace and the next; his favorite mount had a lot of quarter horse in his bloodline, and would pass anywhere in the plains-and-mountain country. Rudi managed that as well, and Edain, which Ingolf had worried about-the younger clansman's horsemanship had improved over the past couple of months, enough to pass for a city-man from Newcastle. Odard had mastered the cow-country style too, and it was different from the long-stirrup Portland seat. At least he'd been brought up on horseback, which was something you couldn't counterfeit.
One thing that wouldn't pass was a Sioux who couldn't ride, he knew.
Everyone in their party raised open hands in the peace gesture; except for Rebecca Nystrup, of course, but hers were handcuffed, with the chain looped through a ring on her saddlebow. The Cutters eased off on their draws, which was reassuring-it was all too easy to let a bowstring roll off your fingertips if you held it too long. An arrow in the face killed you just as dead whether it was intentional or not.
The leader of the patrol was in his thirties and looked much older, with a plainsman's wrinkles and a nose that had been damaged by frost-bite once, leaving part of a nostril missing. The others could have been his brothers, cousins, or even his son if you counted one in his mid-teens. Most of them wore simple boiled-leather breastplates with the Church Universal and Triumphant's sunburst on it over thin sheepskin jackets, though the leader had a mail-shirt instead, and their metal-strapped leather helmets were at their saddlebows, traded for broad-brimmed hats in the hot sun.
All of them had knives, tomahawks and heavy-bladed shetes at their waists, quivers full of arrows over their backs, and round hide shields and lariats hung from their saddles. And a powerful aroma, the harsh rank musk-sweat of men who lived on meat and milk and hadn't had occasion to wash themselves or their clothes lately, added to horse and leather and iron greased with tallow and the odor of lank straggly hair of various shades. Several had minor wounds that looked fresh but not immediate. Their equipment was well made and beautifully cared for, though, and their horses glowed with health and careful tending.
Ingolf held up his hands and smiled. "We're peaceful traders, men of the Dictations," he said.
Peaceful but too tough to rob conveniently, was conveyed by his looks and gear, and that of the men behind him. Swapping around among the nine comrades and the Mormon guerillas had given them suitable equipment, suitably varied. Even Garbh helped with the picture, her massive shaggy barrel-shaped head held low and showing her teeth just slightly at the strangers after Edain called her sharply to heel.
"You're of the Faith?" the leader said, his eyes probing. Over his shoulder: "Jack, Terry, backtrack 'em a couple of miles. Keep your eyes open and check there aren't any more. There's all sorts of buzzards circlin' around hereabouts."
Two of the Cutters reined around and galloped eastward down the remains of US 20, riding on the old graveled shoulders of the road to spare their horses' hooves from the cracked, frost-heaved asphalt that was breaking up in pale chunks. Ingolf went on:
"No, we're not of your Church, but we have permission to travel in the Church's lands by the Prophet's treaty with the Oceti Sakowin. We're out of Newcastle, which is an ally of the Seven Council Fires."
Ally meant pays the Sioux off so they don't raid, of course, but a man from there would use the polite phrasing. Ingolf nodded towards Odard, who managed to look haughty enough for a modern-day Sioux chieftain-something that came naturally to him-and stared over the Cutters' heads. People who didn't know Indians well tended to think they were impassive; in the Richlander's experience, they were as cheerful and chatty as most folk, unless they thought the occasion called for solemnity.